


A Little Left

by mozalieri



Series: on comprend d'où l'on vient [1]
Category: Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Mozart/Baguian & Guirao
Genre: Being in Love with A Dumbass, Brief Sexual Content, Hands, Idiots in Love, M/M, Minor Injuries, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 11:23:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15948359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mozalieri/pseuds/mozalieri
Summary: Salieri uses his right hand.





	A Little Left

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ailia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ailia/gifts).



> part one of a short & simple series of misunderstandings. 
> 
> all fics in the series can be read as stand-alone.

Mozart is clever, both in his music and beneath the sheets. He is precise in composing, conducting, in figuring out what a song needs or what noise he should make to coax Salieri further, make him go harder.

Despite Mozart’s preciseness in music and sex, though, he is, for lack of a better word, a complete featherbrain. His absent-mindedness will be the death of him, Salieri is sure.

Mozart is _clumsy_. He shines like a star, a sparkly ball of energy, composed by God Himself, and yet Salieri doubts that there has ever been a single day where Mozart has not fallen over at least once.

He is fidgety, too. He bounces his legs, rolls from his toes to his heels, and he is constantly dropping things. In fact, there appears to be only two times when Mozart seems completely relaxed or oddly still.

The second time is when he is composing. Perhaps it helps him get that energy out, to instead showcase it through his music. Absolutely electric, intoxicating— Salieri does not mind that one bit. In fact, there is a certain curl of pride in his gut knowing that music is the only other thing that stills Mozart, considering that he himself is the first.

Yes, the only other time that Mozart is relaxed or still is when Salieri takes him apart. In the privacy of their room, in the darkness of late night, long after the candles have been blown out, Salieri is allowed these pleasures. He is able to push himself between Mozart’s legs, to hit him hard or dig his nails into his throat. Good things that hurt, and things so good _that_ they hurt.

Mozart meets Salieri well, adds his own nails and teeth or simply loud moans if the two of them have agreed that tonight is a good night to bind him. Mozart’s focus then is indescribable, not of this earth, almost as if there are only three things that he knows exist: himself, Salieri, and their bed.

Once they are through, he is pliant and yielding, calm and still. He melts into every aftercare kiss, Salieri’s right hand over his chest and lips on the shell of his ear, murmuring to him that yes, he is a good boy.

Besides these two instances, though, Mozart is a complete and total disaster, all over the place, an accident waiting to happen.

And it _does_ happen, of course it does. Salieri is not a gambler, but this is the one thing he would have put all his money on.

Mozart breaks his wrist. Or maybe it is just a bad sprain, looks worse than it is. Either way, he falls right off his conducting stand and lands directly on it.

He is lucky it was not a rib or his neck, but even as Mozart attempts to laugh it off, Salieri can tell that he is in real pain.

Salieri strides over, not particularly fast or slow. He doesn’t want to look worried, not to anyone else, but he is. Anyone who knows him well would know; really then, it’s a good thing that no one knows him well, except for—

“ _Mozart_.” Salieri scolds, dragging out the vowels and leaning over him. He knows he looks annoyed, but truthfully, he isn’t. And he's sure Mozart knows that, too. No one else needs to. “Get up.”

Salieri offers a hand, and Mozart sits up, giggling, pained. He grabs Salieri’s hand with his uninjured left hand and shakily stands.

“I’m okay!” Mozart chirps, obviously not okay. He even seems to be tearing up a bit, probably holding his tears back as to not ruin his makeup. “Just a little fall.”

“A big fall.” Salieri says, then groans at his own childish word choice. Mozart is really rubbing off on him, isn’t he? “Come on, I am going to take you home.”

“Ah, so soon?” Mozart asks, then pouts, “Maestro, I have not even started…” He looks at his conducting seat, then back at Salieri. “Let me prove to you that I am just fine.”

“Mozart…” Salieri warns, watching as Mozart hurries back over to the ladder.

Mozart is— oh, he is really foolish sometimes, Salieri thinks. Kind-hearted and well-meaning, yes, but _God_ , he is nothing short of a rascal.

Affectionately, of course. Mozart is both a lover and a troublemaker, straight from the vault of heaven.

There was a point when Salieri wasn’t sure _just_ what he was. Off put, almost, by this man who seemed so _bratty_ , so infinitely talented; near perfect, maybe. And yet so rude to him at first, even giggling at the look Salieri _knows_ he wore after hearing Mozart’s music for the first time—

And then, embarrassed, and at his front door, apologizing profusely and assuring Salieri that that is _not_ who he is, that he should not have treated Salieri as the whole court instead of, well, an individual person.

Salieri may still think that Mozart is from the vault of heaven, honestly. But now he believes that even angels make mistakes, too.

Like them, Mozart is not without his faults. He has done things that have required apologies, of course, even if they are few and far apart. Never with horrible intentions either, and usually in defense of his gold, glass heart. A rose without thorns; perhaps what makes Mozart so kind is not that he simply doesn't do mean things, but instead that he can recognize his mistakes, refuses to let someone go to sleep at night with his less-than-kind words rattling along in their head.

Kind, sometimes to a fault— really, he _could_ be a little meaner— but that is Mozart. Kind, rambunctious, and _stubborn_ —

Good lord, Salieri realizes that his mind was doing nothing short of wandering, originally intending to think of just how stubborn Mozart is, and then instead focusing on everything he loves about him. God, Salieri is just like this now, isn’t he?

He can think about that later, though, instead thinks about how stubborn Mozart is, watching as he licks his lips, doesn’t even attempt to take a tactical approach to climbing the ladder.

Looking without leaping; oh, that is so _Mozart_.

Mozart’s left hand comes up first, probably because he knows his right will not have it so easily— maybe he _did_ decide to take a tactical approach to this. It doesn’t work, of course. Salieri knew it wouldn’t.

Mozart grabs at the ladder with his right hand, immediately letting out a noise that could only be classified as a pained squeak.

“That’s enough, Mozart.” Salieri walks over, closing most of the distance between them again. He knows the orchestra is looking now, probably wondering just what is going on. It won’t be long before Cavalieri gets sick of waiting, before the performers get a little antsy, before Rosenberg is a thorn in his side, poking fun at how Mozart acts in public.

Mozart releases the ladder with his right hand, lets it hang at his side and ducks his head. His voice comes out quiet, strained as he speaks. Salieri has to lean in, nibbles his lip at the pained sound in Mozart’s voice.

“I can keep conducting,” He whispers, just for Salieri to hear, and it— God, it tugs at his heart strings. Salieri knows Mozart can’t keep going, especially with his right hand injured like this. Stubborn, and pushing; Salieri will not let him bend until he breaks. “Really, Salieri. I can’t get up on the stand, but I can still—”

“No.” Salieri says. He ignores the whine Mozart makes, the way he slumps in dismay against the ladder.

Salieri excuses the performers, apologizes for the inconvenience to each of them as they pack up. Mozart stays put, leaning against the ladder, but Salieri can feel his pout burning into the back of his head.

Ah, Salieri will make this up; and really, Mozart will see that this is for his own good. Conducting with a broken wrist? God, he would only hurt it further, would maybe never be able to use it again…

Salieri grimaces at that thought, decides not to linger on it as he ushers the last of the performers out. Once they are all gone, he heads back over to Mozart.

“Come on, Wolfgang. I will walk you home.” Salieri says, grinning just a little at the way Mozart blushes upon hearing his first name like that.

Blushing, yes, for just a moment before pouting again. Oh, he is not going to let this go so easily, is he?

Or...maybe so. Mozart obviously tries to keep the pout up, but standing face to face with Salieri like this, hearing his name on Salieri’s lips, and likely seeing the worry painted on Salieri’s  features—

Oh, the flame is extinguished, it seems. Mozart slumps instead, defeated and leaning his head on Salieri. Salieri is right, and he must know it, yes. Mozart simply loves music, loves conducting. He doesn’t like it when he can’t.

Salieri rubs Mozart’s back as a comfort, then hums. “Wolfgang, for the time being, I will help you. We should get you to a doctor first, of course, but… After that, I will be your right hand until it gets better.”

Mozart blushes, but he shakes his head, too. “No, no. Antonio, that really isn’t necessary at all. I can still work just fine.”

“No, I insist.” Salieri squeezes Mozart’s shoulder, then brings his free hand up to cup his cheek. “I don’t want you to strain yourself further. Wolfgang, you could permanently damage your wrist, and… Please, it will heal faster the more rest it gets, anyway. I won’t take no for an answer.”

Mozart looks at Salieri’s face, then lets out a breath. He turns his cheek to kiss Salieri’s palm, sweet and soft. “Really, Antonio, I don’t need it…” He starts, then looks up at Salieri through his lashes. He chuckles a little, shaking his head, “But, if you insist, I suppose I have no choice.”

Salieri lets out a little laugh, then uses the hand on Mozart’s cheek to tilt his face again, kiss his lips. Gentle, though a bit eager. Truthfully, it is hard to see Mozart and not simply open his arms for him to fall into, to not just kiss him silly.

It is hard to not do it always, yes, but Salieri is grateful that he can do it at all.

So he does. He kisses Mozart silly _now_ , promises him to be a good right hand. In _all_ aspects, he adds, voice low, which makes Mozart flush.

God, he is cute. Salieri could kiss him all day, but he really shouldn’t. Not now, anyway— no, Mozart needs to see a doctor.

So, Salieri gives Mozart just one more kiss, long and lingering, before pulling away, gathering their things, and leading Mozart to the nearest doctor.

~

Not broken, no, but his wrist is badly sprained. A week, the doctor had said once Mozart’s wrist was wrapped. A week before he could even try to use it again, and they are only three days in, but—

Lord, Mozart is so _antsy_.

Salieri is using his right hand more for Mozart than he has ever used it for himself, he thinks. He is quite the writer, too, a composer himself, and not a bad one either but— God, Mozart is a fountain of things that need to be written down. Everything from musical scores, thoughts and words, to letters to his sister. Mozart babbles so fast that sometimes Salieri needs to ask him to please slow down, even just a little.

It is worth it though, even if the setup of Mozart’s desk is odd, even if he rambles. Salieri likes helping Mozart like this, gently refuses Mozart each time that he insists that he can do something he needs his hands for on his own.

Salieri does most things for him; truly, maybe it is a little overbearing, but he wants Mozart to get better, to heal properly. Mozart minds some things— like writing, for example, as he wants to be able to do it faster— but he does not mind others.

Like touching, for instance. Mozart says that he can touch himself, but Salieri knows better, knows what Mozart wants when he grinds against him like that at night. Truthfully, Salieri would touch him even if his hand was fine, but the joke is there, and he makes it.

Mozart giggles at it, too, insists that if he really wanted to touch himself, he could, but then he begs Salieri to keep going, head thrown back on his shoulder, hips rocking forward into the ring of his fingers.

It is _good_ , really. Perfect, divine, the way Mozart curves for him, melts under his fingers. And Mozart always wants to return this, too, insists that if he cannot use his hand, to instead let him use his mouth.

Salieri allows it; in fact, he has absolutely no objections. After all, Mozart is not using his hand, right? They joke about this, kiss and adjust and kiss some more.

Salieri does uses his own hands here, one of them in Mozart’s hair, the other one holding Mozart’s. His left fingers laced with the ones of Mozart’s right, careful not to squeeze too tight. Just holding, both to make sure that Mozart doesn’t use it, yes, but also just to hold.

Mozart takes him apart, too. He always has.

Three days, and just four more to go. Four days might as well be an eternity, though. Salieri can easily see the effect being cooped up and unable to write himself is having on Mozart.

He is so fidgety. He is already a nervous man, yes, but more often now, he paces the rooms faster, nibbles at his lips. Salieri can tell that he is aching to write something on his own, wishes he could, but still—

Still, he turns down Mozart’s requests to. Mozart is persistent, insistent on being able to write still, but Salieri is having none of it.

Mozart will get better, _really better_ , if he doesn’t use his hand, and that means absolutely no writing.

Mozart groans, tries to add in a rebuttal, but Salieri shakes his head firmly.

“If you need something written down so badly, I will write it for you, Wolfgang.” Salieri says, “I am more than capable—”

“I don’t think you’re not.” Mozart interrupts, then looks apologetic. “In fact, I _know_ you’re capable, Antonio, but I just want to do it myself. I _can_ do it myself. Plus— plus, how am I supposed to tell my sister all the great things about you if you’re writing them?”

Salieri blushes at that, then laughs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Wolfgang, trust me, I will not change anything you say. I will write what you tell me word for word.”

“But it’s…” Mozart slumps, exasperated. “It makes me flustered. I have to say it all slow, and… If she sees it’s in your handwriting, there’s no way she’s going to not think it’s hilarious, and she’s definitely going to tease me.”

“Ah, that is what sisters do, isn’t it?” Salieri asks, raising a brow. “They tease, Wolfgang. She will find something to tease you about, surely. At least, if it is this, we can both be teased.”

“You’d get teased for me?” Mozart asks, obviously touched, a hand on his chest.

“Oh, absolutely.” Salieri shakes his head, letting out a little laugh.

Mozart grins, then sighs half-heartedly. He gently head-butts Salieri, rubs his head there a little.

“I’m angry.” He says, definitely not looking or sounding angry in the slightest.

“Oh?” Salieri asks, running a hand through Mozart’s hair. “Are you now?”

“Yeah.” Mozart says. “Not at you, though. I just want my hand to get better already.” He looks at Salieri through his lashes, then sighs again, dramatic to no end. “Why do I have to wait anyway? Really?”

Mozart asks this like a serious question, as if he really doesn’t understand.

“That’s not obvious?” Salieri raises a brow; really, does Mozart not understand the simple logic of it? Maybe not— or maybe he is just being stubborn. Either way, Salieri humors him, “If you use your hand, then it won’t heal. That’s why you can’t write right now.”

“But _why_?” Mozart asks again, and Salieri bristles a bit. God, he sounds like a child— does he really not understand?

“Wolfgang, I…” Salieri is tempted to scold yes, but… “I am not sure I understand the question.” He admits. “Why don’t you explain why you think you can still write?”

“Well, I hurt this hand.” Mozart says, lifting up his right hand.

“…Yes.” Salieri hums, unsure where Mozart is going with this.

“But I write with this one.” Mozart follows up, holding up his left hand instead.

Salieri looks taken aback. He stares at Mozart’s left hand, mouth just a bit agape—

“W-what?” He stutters out, eyes flickering from Mozart’s held-up hand, then back to his face. Salieri flushes, God— surely, he would have noticed, wouldn’t he have? There’s no way that he has completely missed that Mozart is left-handed.

Salieri thinks. He thinks of the way that Mozart has insisted that he can still write, the way that Mozart started climbing the ladder the other day; he didn’t think about it, did he? Looking before leaping, grabbing with his left hand first because that is simply the one he uses.

Salieri covers his face with one hand, allows Mozart to take his other— and with his left, too, good _lord_. How did he not notice?

Mozart leads him to the bedroom where his desk is; now, the placement of his quills and his inkwell— they make much more sense.

Mozart lets go of Salieri’s hand and grabs a piece of parchment, then a quill. He dips it, taps it on the inkwell and writes on the paper:

_Antonio Salieri._

His handwriting is the same as always, curved and _too much_ , but pretty, too. Legible, at least—

“You are writing.” Salieri mumbles, taken aback. Mozart is— he is _writing_ , just fine, and with his left hand, too.

“Yes…” Mozart says slow, raising a brow and looking at Salieri, “…Why are you surprised? Antonio, I am left handed, did you think…” He starts chuckling, then laughs harder at the flustered look on Salieri’s face. “Is that why you have been doing everything for me?”

“Yes.” Salieri says, fast and, honestly, a bit embarrassed, but— God, he can’t even be _angry_. No, not when Mozart laughs like that: full bodied and like bells, beautiful, and…

Oh, this is so silly. They really took three days to have this conversation, didn’t they?

Salieri has to laugh, too, settling on the bed and covering his face with one hand. “Ah, that is why you were so insistent that you could do your own writing.” He chuckles, shaking his head, “You _really_ could. Wolfgang, why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was trying!” Mozart chirps, laughing more and ducking his head. God, he even covers his mouth as he absolutely loses it, snorts into his hand. “Antonio, I have been trying to tell you that I could still write for days!”

“I thought you were just being stubborn.”

“I thought _you_ were the one being stubborn!”

Salieri laughs harder at that one— God, maybe he was being a bit stubborn. Maybe they both were, but really, Salieri wouldn’t have it any other way. Silly, and laughter inducing—

Oh, he is unsure of when he became the kind of man who laughs this much, this easily, but he doesn’t mind one bit. Unsure, yes, but the laughter is not unwelcome, even when it makes his face hurt or his ribs sore.

Salieri likes to laugh. He likes to laugh with _Mozart._

Mozart finally pulls away from his desk, still chuckling here and there. He all but falls into Salieri’s lap, peppers his face with kisses between little fits of giggles.

“It really just didn’t come up, did it?” Salieri asks, then presses a kiss to Mozart’s lips.

Mozart leans into the kiss, lingering for a moment before pulling away and murmuring, “Well, you didn’t ask…”

Salieri half-scoffs, half-laughs, bringing one hand down to pinch Mozart’s ass and make him squeak. “Next time, I’ll be sure to.” He says. “Knowing you, this will _definitely_ happen again.”

“Be nice to me,” Mozart grins as he drapes himself over Salieri dramatically, “I’m _wounded_.” He bursts into another fit of laughter as Salieri drops his head, blows a raspberry against Mozart’s neck.

“You are not _that_ wounded…” Salieri says, looking down at Mozart’s face, beautiful and flushed from laughter, waiting for him to go on. He does, smirking, “You can still write.”

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on [tumblr](https://loperap.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> special thanks to [my boyfriend](https://saluwueri.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing this for me <3


End file.
